


The Sweetest Vinegar

by TheLocket



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Brainwashing, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Pre-HYDRA Reveal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-06 08:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14053032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLocket/pseuds/TheLocket
Summary: Steve Rogers is an unknown variable. His file shows that he's been known to disobey direct orders. During his brief stint in the army,  he was listed as MIA three times and should have been dishonorably discharged on at least five occasions. There's no place for someone like that at Alexander Pierce's S.H.I.E.L.D.But the Captain America file notes that he can be highly predictable—singled-minded, even—when it comes to one thing. Now it's just a question of finding a way to give him Bucky Barnes.(post-Avengers)





	1. Concussion Protocol

Objectively, it's total bullshit.

After fighting goddamn aliens, he just wants a shower and some _sleep_.

Not the bullshit that the nurses have said is "concussion protocol" and that he's fairly certain future-doctors have invented just to fuck with him.

The shower they let him have, at 2000 hours. The water runs cloudy with ash and debris, then red as his wounds re-open. The S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors hadn't asked him about those and he hadn't mentioned them. Even though he fell out of a building and landed on a fucking car. Future cars are weird though, and crunch and compress. His ribs did the same, but it was an even push and pull. This is probably a good thing. As far as he can tell, Steve doesn’t have any internal bleeding and his lungs feel intact.

Hurting to breathe, well, that's just in his head. Not like the asthma he used to have. There's nothing physically wrong with him. There's no actual lump in his throat all the time. What did the guys used to call it, battle fatigue? A nicer way of saying that he shouldn’t be the only one left. The second the adrenalin leaves his system, that fatigue sets in.

He tries not to look in the mirror.

He only accidentally glances up twice while brushing his teeth. The minty taste at least clears the flavor of shawarma out of his mouth. It wasn't bad. Just _new_. He's had enough new for three lifetimes.

For the next half hour, three nurses scan every inch of him with something that approximates a magnifying glass. (It's some sort of future scanning device, which they say is like an x-ray, but for some reason he still has to take all of his clothes which is just fucking great.) Then, at 2100 hours, they put him to bed. Like a child.

Steve hasn't been in bed this early since he before the serum, when Bucky would tuck him in because he didn't like _your color Steve, be reasonable, you can still sketch from bed, just fucking suck it up already, quit being such an asshole_. Bucky would give him three blankets, since they were thin, and then would add a generous scowl. On particularly cold nights (or when he was particularly mother hennish, which was always), he would lie horizontal across the bed, this legs atop Steve's feet. Steve got used to the heat on his toes, and the weight.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. medical wing has a sheet that seems to made primarily of paper rather than cotton, and a single blue blanket. Steve folds it down, twice, so the blanket is neatly quadrupled over his feet.

It has been a long day, but at least it's over. He closes his eyes.

At 2200 hours, he wakes to a doctor standing at the foot of his bed. She has a small, slim cell phone, which is making a noise like an old-school alarm clock, the type Steve used to have. With a hammer hitting a bell, repeatedly. _BRINNGG_.

If it were a real alarm, Steve could break it. Instead, he has to permit himself the indignity of waking, face covered in drool, to the clinical stare of the doctor, inscrutable under her sleek black hair.

"I'll see you in an hour," she says.

Subjectively, concussion protocol is total bullshit.

 

* * *

 

By 0330, Steve wants to give up on sleep. His body aches, which is a good sign—it means that he's healing, and they assured him that all the bones were reattaching in the right ways. That should be good. Gross, in a way that he doesn't want to know about, but good.

But he feels like he's been run over by a train.

He rolls over and feels the weight on his toes twist. The blanket falls to the floor with a muffled thump.

For what feels like the millionth time, Steve sits up, rubs his face, rubs his hair. He must look like quite a sight, hair sticking up, spit on his face. He retrieves the blanket, grumbling to himself. It's not worth complaining over. It's just a blanket.

Right after Azzano, after Bucky had clocked him in the jaw and gave Steve a piece of his mind with a nine-word sentence (consisting of three derivatives of the word "fuck," none in the pleasant sense), Bucky had _complained_. Boy, Bucky had complained about everything.

The first night, Bucky complained about how Steve ate _all the goddamn beans, Steve, that should be rations for six men at least, can't you even learn to fucking share._ After that, it was about how Steve was so tall it put a crick in his neck just looking at him, or how Steve was just too cheery in the mornings, or how Steve was acting like he could _punch_ _the goddamn moon or something did those drugs go straight to your head?_

Bucky never asked about the procedure, nothing more than what he said in the Hydra facility. _What happened to you? Did it hurt? . . . You don't have one of those, do you?_

And he never worried about Steve's blankets again.

Maybe it was the blankets, maybe it was his new, stupid, heightened-hearing, but Steve found himself jolting awake every night just to hear Bucky having a nightmare. He could be three tents away and hear the muffled noises, the sobbing, the whimpering. Then the rustle, of Bucky waking. The crying never continued once Bucky was awake. And he didn't talk about it, not once. When it was bad, when he woke up three times in a night, he still wouldn't mention it. Maybe he'd be a bit grumpy in the morning. Maybe he'd use more four-letter words with Steve. Maybe he'd scowl a bit more.

Except one night, Steve didn't hear him having the nightmare. He didn't hear anything, until the rustling of his tent opening made him sit up, hair sticking up, drool on his chin. He could see in the dark now, enough to tell that it was Bucky, and that he was shaking like a leaf. And then Steve could hear it, Bucky's teeth grinding. He was trying to fucking hold himself together, and for what. People aren't mountains. But there he was, a human earthquake.

At first, Steve didn't move. But that was bad, then, because he was staring, and Bucky was more mountain than man whenever he knew Steve could see him. It took all Steve’s self-control to ease back so he was lying down. Only then did Bucky amble towards him, and slowly lay himself down across Steve's feet.

It was silent for a moment, just the noise of Bucky shaking and grinding his teeth.

And then:  _Fuck Steve._ _t's like you're a fucking furnace._

But Steve didn't move his feet, even if they were burning with the heat of another body. Bucky wasn't as heavy as he used to be. He wasn't sure if that was perception, or because Bucky had been losing weight. Steve swore to eat less, to give Bucky his extra servings. But Bucky was eating fine, just like the other guys. Steve had to eat more, because of his new bullshit metabolism. Maybe Bucky was just catching up. Maybe they didn't feed him when—before—at the—where he had been those months.

But still, it felt nice. It was Bucky, lying close to him. Steve could feel him breathing.

That was the best sleep Steve had, after the serum. Even his sixty-five year nap hadn't been as restful. With Bucky across his toes, the weight on his ankles, the burning heat of another body.

_BRRRRRINNNNGGGG._

Steve wants to break that fucking phone, he really does. He wakes, glares at the pretty doctor, and kicks the sheets of his toes.

He runs too hot these days, anyway. He doesn't need a blanket.

 

* * *

 

He gives up sleep at 0530, so the doctor is surprised to see him doing calisthenics when she arrives just before 0600.

That makes him mad, that she's early. That means that she has been watching him sleep those last few minutes, before the stupid alarm goes off. He hates that, so he glares while completing modified dips off the edge of the hospital bed.

She seems a bit caught off-guard by the fact that he's awake and dressed, and offers him a slight upwards jerk of her chin.

"Ma'am," Steve says, breath hardly short as he moves to sit-ups on the floor. "Is the concussion protocol completed?"

She crosses her arms. Really, she's about the size Steve used to be. Then she walks over, long strides that make her shoes click.

"Sit on the bed," she says, and Steve warily complies. She removes a penlight from her shirt pocket and shines it in his eyes. He stares back her, never once breaking eye contact.

"Any nausea?" she asks.

"No ma'am," Steve says. "I have been hungry, though."

"That must be the accelerated healing," she says. “Your metabolism should be at least three times that of a normal man. You probably require upwards of ten thousand calories per day.”

 _You have no fucking idea,_ Steve thinks. He's hungry all the time, practically. It's terrible, but of course he knows worse.

"Well?" Steve presses.

"We want to keep you here under observation," she says, finally, stepping back towards the door. Is he not free to go? He can feel his brows snapping together, and fights the sudden urge to force his way out of the room. Ridiculous. He could overpower her in a moment. There isn't any danger here. But still, he can’t figure out what makes him so nervous. Something is off about her.

There's a knock at the door.

"Dr. Smith, if you have a moment?"

Steve is surprised by her generic name, and then checks himself. It's a common name, after all. No reason to think she’s hiding something.

The man at the door is handsome, with coloring like Steve, although his hair must have been darker at some point. His skin has a leathery look, as if he took in a lot of sun in his younger years, but his eyes are bright over glasses so slim they are barely there. His sleeves are rolled up, hands with fingers spread wide. He stands openly, like he has nothing to hide.

"Of course," Dr. Smith says, and exits the room in a single smooth motion.

"Apologies for the dramatic entrance," the man says, a wry smile on his face. His voice, like his face, is warm. "It is an honor to meet you."

He holds out a hand, and Steve stands to return the gesture.

"Alexander Pierce," he says.

"Steve," Steve says. "Rogers."

There's a light like humor in Pierce's eyes.

"Oh, yes, I know who you are," he says. "Might have dressed up as you for a few Halloweens—have a seat."

He gestures towards the bed, and Steve sits. Pierce pulls up a chair and sits across from his, stance wide. He leans on elbow on a knee, and hold his chin, pensive.

"I hear that you've had a rough twenty-four hours," Pierce continues.

Steve sits up straighter. He thinks of the civilians he didn't save. He thinks of Tony Stark, who went into outer-space and left a part of himself there. He thinks of Peggy, and whether she'll see him on the news and cry for him all over again. And whether she'll even remember who he is, all these years later.

"Not as tough as some," he says.

Pierce chuckles.

"And certainly not the toughest you've ever had," Pierce says, and Steve feels himself soften a bit. He can see, in Pierce's weathered face, someone who has also had plenty of long days. "I hate to interfere with Dr. Smith's protocols—she's really the best—but I thought that this just couldn't wait."

 

* * *

 

 

After Pierce explains, Steve experiences the closest to an asthma attack that he has since 1943. He tries his hardest not to let it show, but he's sure that Pierce's eyes flick down to the white of his knuckles, gripping the knees of his concussion-protocol-sweatpants. Pierce waits patiently as Steve tries to breathe.

"You're certain," Steve says, his voice hollow. "Coulson—Coulson never mentioned this." The name sticks in his throat.

"I suppose he wouldn't have." Pierce's blue eyes are soft, but Steve is certain they don't miss anything. "After all, getting your hopes up would have been cruel. Like losing him twice."

 _Him_. It's not even the name and still Steve fights the urge to gape like a fish, to gasp at air like it's not there. Pierce said the name once, and Steve felt himself falling. Ironic. He almost laughs. He almost laughs aloud, for sheer joy. He wants to.

But not yet. Like Pierce said, losing him twice.

Instead of laughing, he tightens the grip on the knee of his pants.

"How long," Steve says. Pierce gets the question.

"It took you awhile to wake up. We . . . defrosted . . . you slowly. As you slept, Coulson, well, he checked in on you. And then it got him thinking. If you survived, perhaps . . . perhaps you weren't the only one we missed. The only one who's been waiting for us all these years. After that, it was a matter of days. We got him back within the week."

Steve swallows, and it's so loud that he's sure Pierce can hear it.

"Now," Pierce continues. "I understand if you don't—well, if you aren't ready. After all, just twelve hours ago you were fighting, what do they call them, Chitauri?"

Steve stands without willing his legs to move. He will start walking, he knows, even if Pierce doesn't lead the way. He'll walk the length of the entire S.H.I.E.L.D. facility.

"I'm ready, sir."

"Follow me," Pierce says, and he strides off, a confident swagger Steve wishes he could match. As they walk, Steve catches the older man glancing back, a slight smile on his lips. Steve trots at his heels like an eager dog. It doesn't even occur to him how strange he must look. He's barefoot, and the tiles are cold under his toes.

 

* * *

 

Pierce pauses at the door, and gives Steve a slow, steady look.

"You have to remember, Steve," he says. "It took us weeks to get you awake, and of course, you're . . . well . . . you. And he—well, he sustained some damage, and . . . "

Something in Steve's face (he can't imagine what, he feels like he's carved out of stone) makes PIerce break off, and slowly open the door.

And then . . .

"Bucky."

He's lying on the cot, and it's the same setup they had Steve in, when he first woke up. Fake 1940s hospital room. Fake 1940s New York out the window. Fake 1940s baseball game, blaring in the background.

Steve’s head spins at the memory, or maybe he actually does have a concussion, because he's kneeling at the edge of Bucky's bed as the room spins, searching for a hand to hold onto.

"His–?" He feels his throat close off.

"We did our best, Steve," Pierce said. "I'm afraid we couldn't save the arm. A small loss, compared to what we were able to save."

It's fine—it doesn't matter, it's his left arm anyway, and it's _Bucky_. He's a little pale, and he's wearing his full uniform, looking exactly the same, but he's not as scrawny as Steve remembers after Azzano. And the left arm of his jacket is stained dark rust with blood, and tattered from—but—but now his chest is rising and falling. It's slight, and shallow. But . . .

Steve places his hand on Bucky's neck, just below his jaw, to feel his pulse, and quickly withdraws his hand like he's been burned.

"He's cold," he says, to Pierce, and his tone is a million accusations. How could they leave him cold? He runs hot with anger, an instant of lightning in his veins.

Pierce chuckles and Steve fights the urge to sock him in the eye.

"I apologize for laughing," he says, immediately, holding up both hands palms up, as if to show that they are empty and he has nothing planned.  "We are relieved. The sergeant was significantly colder when we retrieved him from the Alps. We're incredibly pleased that he's come through so well."

Steve feels a different heat under his sternum, a burst of pride. Of fucking course he would. Bucky would pull through. Not Nazis, not an entire glacier, not a spooky Hydra weapon with a blue blast. Bucky was too tough for all of that. For everything.

Steve pushes himself up, so he can reach over the bed for Bucky's other hand. It's cool to the touch, but it's there.

He'll lie his entire fucking self over Bucky, to get him warm. Who's complaining about him being a furnace now?

But he doesn't have to, because as he rubs at the back of Bucky's hand, he sees Bucky's long eyelashes flutter.

A breath of air escapes him, and his eyes are _open—fuck_ , his eyes are open and bright and blue and alive—and then his lips part. A breath of air escapes, a single syllable without any traction behind it, and then his tongue wets his lips, and he tries again. Every single moment is a miracle.

This time, he speaks.

"Steve," he says. The hand under his turns, and Bucky's palm presses to Steve's palm, and Steve feels himself crumble, crush, crunch. More than his ribs under the car. More than his face under Red Skull's fist. More than the water rushing in around him, cold, so cold, freezing cold.

His hand is warm, and he's warming Bucky's hand, and Bucky is alive and _breathing_ for fuck's sake.

Steve doesn't want to look away, but he does. He has to. This is important.

"Thank you, Alexander," he says, turning to look him in the eye as he says it. "I owe you everything."

Alexander Pierce positively beams. It's like staring at the sun.

 

* * *

 

It takes Bucky two hours to sit up without shaking, and when Steve tries to get him to drink some water, he vomits so violently off the edge of the bed that Steve almost calls the nurse.

He doesn't, because Bucky always took care of him himself, and Steve wants to do the same. He cleans it up, and cleans Bucky up, and rubs his hand up and down Bucky's back, just like Bucky used to when Steve was sick.

"Thank you," Bucky says.

"Of course, Buck," Steve says.

Bucky sighs, and motions for the water. This time, he keeps it down. He's taking huge gulps, and Steve wants to remind him, like Bucky used to say, _easy there, Steve, take it fucking slow, don't be an idiot._

But he doesn't. Bucky knows how to take care of himself. Always did.

"Where are we?" Bucky asks. Steve draws a slow breath.

“New York,” he says. “We—we both lost some time.”

Bucky shrugs, staring at the wall.

“Is the war over?” he asks that same spot on the wall.

“Yeah.” Steve feels himself smiling. “We won, Buck, and Peggy and Howard—”

At the name, Bucky flinches, and Steve reaches for the trash in case the water comes up again. It doesn’t.

A breath, then. Take a moment. They have plenty of time, no need to sprint into it. He should think of Bucky first, not of how much all this information has been rattling around inside of him with no where to go, no one to talk to, no one who could understand. Take it slow.

Steve gently strokes Bucky’s knee over the blanket. The gesture feels strange. He’s acting like Bucky is a child, and he really hated when people would do the same to him, before the serum, when he was sick. But Bucky just looks so fragile. So confused. The shudder passes is favor of a blank look; he stares out the fake window without seeing it. Steve can see his eyes lose their focus, go fuzzy. And Steve has to bring him back. The fall must have been—the fall. He is probably reliving it. Steve sighs, and tries again.

“They founded this agency. It’s called S.H.I.E.L.D. They’re good people, Buck.”

“You trust them?” Bucky says.

“They saved our lives,” Steve says. “We owe them so much.”

Bucky nods, and Steve reaches out for his hand again.

“What do they want from us?” Bucky asks.

“I don’t know,” Steve says, honestly, and he fights the urge to shrug again. “But whatever it is, we’ll do it together. Like we always do.”

Steve reaches out for Bucky’s hand. It’s still cold. Steve flinches at the cold, and Bucky flinches at the touch.

“Even if it’s another war?” Bucky asks. “You’ll fight for them?”

Steve isn’t sure what Bucky is asking. Maybe he’s figured it out, that the room is a lie, and he’s trying to speak in code. Maybe he thinks they’ve been captured by the Germans. Again. Steve feels his heart sink. Of course that’s what Bucky is thinking. Of course he doesn't trust. Hell, Steve thinks it's almost too good to be true except Bucky was always too good to be true. Showing up whenever Steve needed him most. How is this any different? It's the only thing that's made sense at all.

“ _We’ll_ fight,” Steve corrects. “Together. Whatever it is.”

“I’m going to rest now,” Bucky says. The fake backdrop, the stage set pulls his eyes. Hazy, unfocused, staring.

“Okay, Buck.”

They just need more time. That's okay, because Steve has been waiting. It feels like he's finally whole again.

 

* * *

 

It's impossible to tell the time of day in this fake hospital room, with the radio still cycling through Dodgers games and the lights shining fake sunlight through the fake windows. But Steve knows it's getting late. He feels himself dozing off, the weights of the last twenty-four hours catching up with him.

Bucky has been lying on his back, arm at his side, feet straight ahead, eyes closed. In the hours, he hasn’t moved. Steve hopes he is sleeping, and tries not to let himself think that Bucky looks like a corpse.

A knock at the door startles them both. Pierce is there, reclining against the doorjamb.

"Steve," he says, and his blue eyes twinkle. "I'm here to relieve you." This is kindness, and Steve is grateful that this new strange world has someone as great as Alexander Pierce. Someone who understands responsibility and duty and doing the right thing, even when it's hard. Even when other people fight you. Because right is _fucking_ _right_.

At first, though, Steve shakes his head.

"This isn't that sort of duty," he says. He means it: this isn't an assignment. It's a purpose.

"You're worn out," Pierce says. "You need food and rest and a shower. He'll be here in the morning—I'll make sure of it."

Kindness. And understanding. In one day he has two people who understand him more than anyone else he's met since waking up. He can trust Pierce. And Pierce is right—Steve needs to take care of himself so he can take care of Bucky.

Steve sighs and stands. He feels like his limbs are tree trunks. They almost are audible as they snap into place, too long held in one position. He's a fucking super-soldier, he should be able to take care of Bucky like Bucky took care of him for his whole life.

But Pierce is right.

"Yes, sir," he says, quietly, and Pierce twinkles at him.

In the doorway, he stops to look back at Bucky, who appears to be sleeping again with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

"I'll be right back, Buck," he promises.

 

* * *

 

The second he leaves, Pierce shuts the door, turning the handle so it makes a soft click as the mechanism snaps into place.

He drags a chair over to the edge of the bed and sits, knees spread wide, hands braced on his thighs.

After a moment, the patient sits up, back straight, a full ninety-degree angle.

"Status report," Pierce says.

The soldier's face goes taut, eyes flat. And then repeats verbatim everything that the target said.

Because the Asset knows that compliance will be rewarded.


	2. Heil Hydra

Steve stays away from the hospital room for less than an hour. That's plenty of time for Pierce to find what he needs. Then it's back their temporary facility in Queens. He never thought he would be relieved to see a block of office cubicles.

But this is headquarters, at least for now. The grey partitions still have a few thumbtacks from where office drones had attempted to make their nine-to-fives something other than a prison sentence. It's almost cute.

There aren't any windows in office buildings like these, except the corner offices. Cell service is spotty at best. And the above-grounded subway rattles by, white noise spiking into a screaming roar every 3-5 minutes.

Horrific for entry-level employees. And mid-level employees. And anyone without an office, really. But perfect for running a covert organization.

No long range hacking, no sniper eye-lines, background noise to make listening devices impossible. Ideal. And depressing.

Pierce heads straight for the refurbished hoteling space. He opens the door slowly, knowing what's on the other side.

"Sir, did it work?"

Sitwell doesn't look much like a puppy, what with the shiny dome of his shaved head, but the second Pierce comes through the door he's practically salivating for attention. Pierce wonders how long he's been cooped up in this building.

"Well, I'm still alive, aren't I?" Pierce retorts easily, flashing a fake smile at his underling.

"Yes sir," Sitwell says. "So Captain Rogers took the bait?"

Pierce sighs, removes his glasses, and passes a hand over his eyes.

"Remind me again what you do here?" Pierce asks. He holds in the sigh.

"Well, sir, I—"

The door bursts open behind him, smacking into the wall, and Pierce suppresses an expression of gratitude that would have included taking several names in vain.

"Sir," the intruder barks out. At first, Pierce isn't sure what calls for the yell. No one is covered in blood. Disappointing, but Pierce still allows himself a small smile and quickly flashes his eyes over him. Young, wiry, with close-cropped dark hair and a taste for punishment.

Pierce sees a great deal of himself in Brock Rumlow.

"Got an update for me?" Pierce asks, sliding hands into pockets. It's a gesture he doesn't allow himself in the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility. Looks duplicitous. But sometimes his shoulders cramp, for goodness's sake.

"We've disposed of it," Rumlow says.

"Great."

"Disposed of what?" Sitwell cuts in.

Rumlow slides him a dangerous look, eyes moving while his head remains steady. Pierce smiles at him and his cobra-like glare. Really, this boy is a natural.

"Should I move the Team out to the West Coast?" Rumlow continues.

"Not yet," Pierce says, raising a hand to stay him. "This sounds like a perfect test for our newest recruit."

"Who's that?" Sitwell asks.

Rumlow rolls his eyes, and Pierce makes a mental note to chastise him for it, even though he agrees with the sentiment whole-heartedly.

"Jasper," Pierce says. "Could you pull my car around?"

Sitwell accepts the keys with badly concealed excitement. He's barely gone when Rumlow grumbles.

"Who recruited him," he mutters. The words are just leaving his lips when he glances at Pierce and catches the older man's expression. "Sorry, sir, it's—"

Pierce waves this away, shaking his head somewhat, and Rumlow relaxes.

"You're sure it's fully deactivated?" Pierce presses instead.

"That tech was ancient," Rumlow says. "The guys busted it up pretty good, and then we put it somewhere no one will find it."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Pierce says, striding over to the screen at the front of the room. "The Russians knew how to make something to last."

The glass of the screen is shattered along the corner, and there's a bit of bone fragment embedded, dotted red with blood.

"And then there's the issue of getting him a replacement," Pierce says aloud, eyes still fixed on the screen. He can feel Rumlow watching him. Good. "The Asset has been tasked with acquiring Stark Tech. I suppose it will be an upgrade. The Starks always excelled at making weapons."

Pierce lets his fingers brush the bloody bone caught in the glass. There's a bit of hair still attached. Likely scalp. A human head bashing the screen would create this pattern of radiating damage. At a high enough speed, with enough force.

"Messy," he murmurs, brushing the remnant away. "Have Sitwell call the cleaning crew. It looks the former owners left some of . . . themselves behind."

"Yes sir."

"And Brock? You might try smiling next time."

Rumlow's face stretches in a thin expression that is a far cry from a smile.

"It seems unnecessary," he says, voice better. "Sitwell's an idiot."  


"Well, you catch more flies with honey."

Rumlow does bark out a single laugh at that. At Pierce's inquisitive expression, he adds, "If that's your metaphor well . . . the Asset's hardly honey."

Now it's Pierce's turn to smile, all flinty edges. He doesn't allow himself this expression often, so it's a pleasure to get to pull it out, dust it out, keep it sharp.

"And Captain America isn't a fly, Brock."  


"Harder to swat," Rumlow mutters in agreement, turning for the door.

"We won't have to," Pierce says, and Rumlow freezes in the doorway. Pierce laughs a bit, shakes his head, but leaves the danger in his face. "You think I wasn't worried when Nick Fury said he found Hydra's Number One enemy, alive, and brought him back here?"

Rumlow looks guilty. He may not have been smart enough to work out Pierce's plan, but Pierce can see that's he smart enough to take his punishment.  


"He has no reason to suspect anything," Pierce continues. "It's not like Coulson is around to tell him that this was our op from day one. Captain America might throw a good punch, but he's a soldier, not a spy. He won't dig. Not now, not that he has his precious Bucky back. And the Asset has been told to do whatever Captain Rogers asks of him. In fact, I ordered him to cater to Steve's every whim."  


Pierce fiddles with the desk chair, spinning it. It squeaks, makes the turn unevenly. Shoddy construction.

"And," Pierce continues. "Captain America will be much more useful on our side."

"If we can control him," Rumlow says under his breath.

Pierce walks over. Slowly. Deliberately. He's missed this. His hands in his pockets, lips stretched in a mirthless smile. And Rumlow flinches. It's _beautiful_.

"Oh, I know I can," Pierce says. He stands chest-to-chest with Rumlow and let's his eyes drift downwards. He watches Rumlow's pulse in his neck, the rise and fall of his chest, and visually catalogues all his pain points, all the major arteries. Which single points could make him bleed out.

Rumlow's eyes are fixed on his shoes, and Pierce feels the warmth spread through his own body, the pure joy of control.

"Yes sir," Rumlow says to his shoes and Pierce feels the grin rip across his face, a violent pull that almost hurts his cheek muscles. He practically growls.

"Sir." Sitwell is out of breath. He probably ran up the stairs from the garage, the poor chump. "Your car is warming up."

The moment is shattered, and Pierce pulls his ironclad mask back onto his face.

"You pulled it around?"

"To the front, sir."

"And left it running?"

"Yes sir."

"With the keys in?"

Sitwell pales.  


"I—" He breaks off in a sprint.

Rumlow chuckles under his breath.

"I make him nervous," Pierce says, faking a sigh as if he's disappointed in his own power. "He's really an excellent agent."

"Yeah, well." Rumlow shakes his head, still laughing to himself.

"I used to make you nervous, too. Perhaps I should remind you of that."

Pierce has had a really fantastic day. One for the books. Captain America groveling at his feet. Sitwell probably self-flagellating for a car that is, at the end of the day, biometrically locked to Hydra personnel only. And now Rumlow, as ready to be broken as the first day that Pierce laid eyes on him. A prize stallion. Part of the joy is that he rebels. Then he can be broken, again and again. It makes Pierce's hand quiver, and he has to splay out the fingers to resist the urge to form a fist and start his lesson that moment.  


That would be no fun. It's all about the foreplay.

Instead, he reaches the hand up to pat Rumlow's cheek and delights at the flinch. After so long of practicing being soft, it's a thrill to see how sharp he can be.

"Since our newest recruit will be handling Los Angeles, you'll be reassigned to ops. Graveyard shift. I expect that you will keep Sitwell's chair nice and warm for him."

Pierce is down the hall, by the elevator, and Rumlow still hasn't moved, halfway into the conference room, foot propping the door.

"And Brock, remember, you may not be honey either, but I trust you'll work your hardest to be the sweetest vinegar. As we all do. And that's an order."

As the elevator doors close, he hears Rumlow murmur it, like a prayer: _Heil Hydra_.

The ride to the basement is less than 30 seconds—they've tested it several times—so Pierce passes his hand over the front of his trousers only once. The walk out the front door is nearly physically painful.

"Sir." Sitwell opens the car door for him.

"Jasper, can you get me a copy of the surveillance footage from my visit?"

"Is something wrong?" Sitwell asks. "Is it—Rumlow—or—?"

"Nothing wrong," Pierce smiles. "There's just something that I'd like to . . . go over . . . this evening."

He drives away, but watches for Sitwell to repeat the same words in the rearview.

He'll have Cap saying them soon, too, and just the idea almost makes him take both hands off the wheel.

 _Heil Hydra_ , indeed.


End file.
